


some measure of peace

by procrastinatingbookworm



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Implied/Referenced Sex, Introspection, M/M, Melancholy, POV Queer Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24051430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: Statement of Jonathan Fanshawe, regarding Jonah Magnus.
Relationships: Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus
Kudos: 23
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus





	some measure of peace

Jonah Magnus was utterly full of himself, Jonathan Fanshawe decided, mere minutes after meeting him.

Nearly a decade has passed, and he hasn’t changed his mind yet.

Jonah is confident in the way men are when they know themselves to be in some way superior. If asked, Jonah would compliment his own intellect, his mental fortitude, but Jonathan has a different theory.

Jonathan thinks that Jonah is egotistical because he is beautiful.

It’s certainly true that Jonah is lovelier than most men, though that is more a consequence of a particular queerness of his physicality, one that Jonathan shares.

Despite this similarity setting them apart from their peers, their faces are rather different. Jonathan’s features are long and narrow, Jonah’s face is soft and round.

(Jonathan pauses, lifting his head to look at Jonah where he sleeps beside him, committing the details to memory.)

There’s a flush of color high on Jonah’s cheeks. If Jonathan leaned close, he would just about be able to see the freckles dotting the bridge of Jonah’s nose.

Jonathon knows Jonah’s face intimately, in more senses of the word than one. He knows how the slight upturn of Jonah’s nose feels under his fingertips, and between his thighs.

He’s gripped handfuls of Jonah’s reddish-brown hair, fists tangled in his curls. His hair at the moment is longer than he usually wears it, neglected in favor of work.

Jonah’s eyes are shut, but Jonathan knows they’re an icy blue-green.

(He wants to say that he doesn’t know if they always were that color, but he knows they are unchanged, unlike the soul behind them.)

Jonathan traces his gaze down the column of Jonah’s throat, marked with the ghosts of bruises. His jutting collarbones, his narrow, freckled shoulders.

The swell of his chest, unbound. The dip of his stomach, hair trailing down to where his cock nestles above his slit.

Hips, dangerously sharp under the skin. Thighs, marked all over with healing bruises, ranging from vivid purple to sickly green. Bruised shins, thin ankles, dainty feet.

Jonathan aches to wake him. To touch, or kiss, to feel his heartbeat rise from the slow murmur of sleep to the pound of arousal.

Jonah is lovely. Jonathan wishes he could hate him.

He’d fled back to Jonah’s side as soon as Albrecht was burned. He shouldn’t have, but he needed some anchor in the horror of what he now knew hadn’t been a tall tale between strange men, but simply the analysis of what no man could truly understand.

Only now, having been comforted in Jonah’s arms, and having bid him farewell with his touch, is Jonathan ready to leave.

(He realizes, some time later, that Jonah must have known as soon as he let him in, how the night was to end.)

He sets his statement on the writing desk, Jonah’s name printed large on it, and turns to go.

“I love you,” he whispers, as he shuts the door. “My dearest, beautiful Jonah. I’ll love you always.”


End file.
